


Touch Me

by nhasablog



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Tickling, Ticklish Sherlock, Touch-Starved, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:35:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5455109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nhasablog/pseuds/nhasablog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wasn’t into anything that had to do with physical affection. He recoiled if he was touched; as if John’s fingers - because it was usually John who reached out - had burned his skin. It was positively alarming until John’s inner Sherlock Holmes finally came to a conclusion.</p>
<p>(Or, John observes Sherlock and realizes that he’s touch starved, so he makes it his mission to start touching him more.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch Me

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: One brief mention of sex, as in “Sherlock’s not interested in it” because asexual!Sherlock is my life.
> 
> Also posted on my tumblr nhasablog.tumblr.com

Even though Sherlock was a consulting detective who could read everyone and everything thoroughly in approximately five seconds, John would like to think that he knew his friend pretty well by now. While Sherlock focused on the smallest details in order to interpret a situation, John was a bigger fan of getting to know someone and memorize their little quirks and habits. He was sure that was how the majority of the people worked as well, but he seemed to be the only one who had ever tried to read Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock honestly wasn’t that difficult to figure out, once you’d seen all parts of him. He liked being by himself, and the only person he enjoyed being around for at least a little while was John himself, which was still surprising but he’d decided not to question it. Despite working alone Sherlock had a great amount of contacts he could use whenever he pleased, but that part was less surprising, since Sherlock rarely left a case unsolved, so people usually felt like they owed him. Sherlock was a bit of a lone wolf, to put a label on it. He acted alone, but that didn’t mean that he always wanted to be alone.

The first time John realized that was about two months into their companionship. After John mentioned that he was going out that evening, and was bestowed with the glorious change of Sherlock actually listening to him, the hitch in his friend’s voice was hard to miss.

“Out?”

John had whipped his head in his direction, quick enough to almost give him whiplash. “Uhm, yes. Why? Did you need something?”

Sherlock waved a hand at him in what he probably hoped was a nonchalant way, but John could sense that something wasn’t quite right. “Not at all. I was just wondering if it’s with that lawyer or the taxi driver.”

John’s lips twitched. “I never went out with a taxi driver.”

“Oh, right.”

“I can stay home, if you want me to.”

Sherlock’s face was almost unreadable now, which was a sign that he wasn’t really sure if he should tell John what was really on his mind or not. “The date’s going to be a disaster anyway.”

And thus John sacrificed his own plans for Sherlock for the first time. Back then he hadn’t known it would become a bit of a habit, but in the end he wasn’t actually upset with Sherlock for indirectly asking that of him. It just felt nice to know that he was wanted, no matter if the consulting detective realized it or not.

The second time John realized something about Sherlock that possibly only Mycroft knew about, they had been friends for a lot longer, so it was about time John made some sort of discovery again.

Sherlock was, without question, absolutely uninterested in anything that had to do with bonding. He never tried to get to know anyone other than to have the advantage and to boast - “I do not boast!” “Sure, you don’t, Sherlock.” - but John had pretty much known that since the first week. His newest realization ran a little deeper than that.

To put it simply and boldly; Sherlock wasn’t interested in relationships, and especially not in sexual ones. John knew it by the way Sherlock always questioned his own desire to date, and whenever John was in the mood to somewhat overshare - which was a rare occurrence but happened - Sherlock almost looked disgusted, but not in a ‘I’m judging you’ sort of way. No. More like a ‘I don’t want to hear this’ way. John was only confused for a little bit before it hit him.

“You’re not into sex, are you?”

Sherlock had refused to answer his question because “You’re being inappropriate!” which had made John laugh because “I’m being inappropriate? Have you met yourself?”

That night was a bit of a mess, but at least John felt like he knew Sherlock a little better once morning arrived. It was also safe to say that that experience prompted the start of a whole new discovery, and John felt quite proud of himself for solving the puzzle that was Sherlock Holmes. It was a slow process, but it was progressing.

Sherlock wasn’t into anything that had to do with physical affection. He recoiled if he was touched; as if John’s fingers - because it was usually John who reached out - had burned his skin. It was positively alarming until John’s inner Sherlock Holmes finally came to a conclusion.

Sherlock was touch starved. The realization wasn’t very surprising to John. Sherlock didn’t seem like the type of person to let anyone close enough to touch him in any way. John doubted even Mycroft had gotten to be affectionate with his little brother for the past decade or two. Sherlock was touch starved, so he didn’t know how to react to the action itself, and the very moment John realized it he made it his mission to start touching his friend more often, because no one deserved to live their lives like that. He wouldn’t go overboard, of course, because some people simply didn’t like being touched, but a part of him knew that Sherlock craved it. Who was John Watson to not comply to Sherlock Holmes’ wishes?

He started small. A hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as they greeted each other in the morning. A squeeze to his arm when congratulating him for having solved a case. Leaning into him ever so slightly when they were sitting on the sofa completely exhausted after a long day. Sherlock didn’t say anything about it, but John knew that he noticed. The shifting eyes and tense movements following John’s actions were indications enough.

Sherlock sometimes jerked away from his hands, but John suspected that was more out of habit than anything. As time went by, John touched him more and more, and in return, Sherlock seemed to be accepting it more and more. It didn’t take long for Sherlock himself to initiate the touching, and John knew that his job here was done. However, there was one little discovery that had made this whole thing a lot more interesting than John would have previously thought.

It was Saturday night and the whole city of London was alive. John could hear them all the way from Baker Street, and he didn’t know if the constant noise annoyed him or not. On one hand, knowing that people were enjoying themselves had always been a source of happiness for John, but on the other hand it also made him feel slightly old being curled up on the sofa with a cup of tea. Then again, he had never been much of a party animal to begin with.

“Why are they even celebrating?” Sherlock exclaimed, having appeared on - and leaned into - John’s side with a sour expression. “They’re just going to be a depressing mess tomorrow anyway.”

John snorted. “Where do you hide all of that optimism?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m serious. Every week is the same. They’re all cheering on Friday and Saturday, only to mourn on Sunday. Why even get your hopes up if you know you’re going back to work on Monday?”

John poked him in the chest, something he’d probably never do before their little touching thing started happening. “You’re being a lot more depressing than they are.”

Sherlock batted his hand away. “Oh, stop it. I’m just being realistic.”

John barked out a laugh at that. “You’re ridiculous.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched upwards. “Realistic.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Realistic.”

“Ri-” John poked his chest again. “-di-” Poke. “-cu-” Again. “-lous.” The last contact ended up happening a little lower this time, because Sherlock had moved to try to get away from him, so John’s finger had poked him on his upper ribs instead. The reaction that followed certainly made John stop in his tracks.

“Was that a yelp?”

“Pardon?”

“You just yelped.”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did.”

Sherlock huffed. “John, I think you’re the one who’s being ridiculous now.”

But John was hit by a wave of realization before Sherlock could worm his way out of this. As a grin found his face, a nervousness found Sherlock’s, and for the first time since they’d met they were both on the same level of understanding. They both knew what had happened, and they both knew what was about to follow.

“You’re not ticklish by any chance, are you, Sherlock?” John asked, a nonchalance about him that was as fake as reality TV.

Sherlock visibly tensed up. “Of course not. There you go, being ridiculous again.”

John hummed. “I think you’re lying though, and I cannot figure out why.” He scooted closer to him. “People don’t lie to their friends, Sherlock.”

Something flickered in Sherlock’s eyes. “I wouldn’t have known that, since you’re the first one I’ve ever had.”

John ignored his urge to wrap him up in a hug - he could do that later - and forced his voice to remain playful and teasing. “You know what friends do as a form of bonding?”

Sherlock probably already knew the answer, but he asked anyway. “What?”

“This.”

John didn’t know what he had been expecting Sherlock to do when he pounced on him; maybe shove him off and run for the hills, but he certainly hadn’t expected him to start giggling before John had even so much as touched him.

It was amusing to witness the great Sherlock Holmes giggle, but he also knew that he was probably the only person who was able to make it happen. Sherlock had let John in, and for that John was eternally grateful.

However, the giggling was nothing compared to the laughter that started pouring out once John actually started tickling him.

“W-wait, nohohoho!”

John had gone for his ribs, just to test out exactly how sensitive they were. He’d trapped Sherlock’s hands with his knees to get them out of the way as his fingers played his ribcage like the piano. A poke here, a sweep there, and they were producing the most wonderful sounds. John couldn’t take all the credit here. It was all Sherlock.

“What’s wrong?” John asked him with a grin. “You seem to be struggling a bit there.”

It was true. Sherlock was squirming and tugging at his arms as if his life depended on it. John could even feel his feet kicking behind him. It was quite refreshing to see his friend in such a desperate state.

“Johohohn, I swehehear-”

“You swear? You can barely talk properly.”

He knew Sherlock would most likely roll his eyes at that, but said eyes were pretty occupied as Sherlock’s whole face scrunched up. It was a hilarious sight.

“Gohohod!” Sherlock exclaimed as John moved downwards to scribble over his stomach. “Nohohoho, come ohohon!”

“Sweet spot?”

“You’re the wohohorst!”

“So eloquent.”

John tickled every surface of Sherlock’s upper body he could easily reach; reducing his best friend to an incoherent mess quicker than Sherlock would probably like to admit. John smirked at the blackmail material this would provide him.

Sherlock had the most endearing reactions, if John had to be honest. He squealed when John wiggled his fingers lightly over his tummy, he yelped when John squeezed his sides, and he giggled when John went for his neck. All the while he was still tugging at his arms in order to free them, and at this point he was digging his heels into the couch to try to throw John off. It wasn’t very effective, but A for effort.

“Plehehease!” Sherlock cried after a while, his face having adopted this very red color that looked pretty good on him. “John, plehehease!”

“Begging, are we?” John teased, working his hands under Sherlock’s arms to torture his pits. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type to give in this easily, Sherlock.”

Sherlock somehow managed to huff through his laughter; one of his hands finally succeeding in escaping. He tried to push John’s hands off, but it proved to be quite hard when John had access to double the amount of them than he did.

“Gaha, dohon’t!” he howled when John reached behind him to kneed at his thighs. Sherlock’s hand flailed around uselessly, his laughter increasing by the second. He really was a lot more ticklish than John had initially suspected.

All good things come to an end. When John had discovered that his knees were almost as bad as his belly, he’d dedicated some good two minutes to tease the sensitive areas. Sherlock had fallen into hysterics almost instantly, which only resulted in him becoming completely exhausted. His body went limp without his consent, but John wasn’t a sadist, so as soon as the thrashing ceased his wiggling fingers did too. He watched his friend gasp for air; still seated neatly on top of him.

“Are you okay?” he asked once Sherlock had calmed down a bit.

Sherlock nodded; his messy curls bouncing on the top of his head. “I’m fine,” he choked out, his voice hoarse. “You’re awful, though. I hope you know that.”

John shot him a cheeky grin. “And you’re ridiculous.”

“Please don’t ever use that word again. That is what got us into this whole mess to begin with.”

John sniggered and heaved himself off of him. “At least you’re not being a depressing mess anymore.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat up as well. “My point still stands.”

“Of course it does.” John reached out to pat his knee, and this time Sherlock recoiled for a whole other reason than he’d used to. John could get used to this.


End file.
